<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Intoxicated by PetitePandaBear</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324116">Intoxicated</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetitePandaBear/pseuds/PetitePandaBear'>PetitePandaBear</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Drunkenness, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, Slow Burn, Spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:21:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,875</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetitePandaBear/pseuds/PetitePandaBear</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>While trying to make a living for yourself during the Clone Wars, away from your home on Alderaan, chance introduces you to Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi as he mourns the loss of his love with the help of alcohol. What you don't realize is that fate has a funny way of taking the most insignificant of meetings and turning it into a pivotal moment that will change your life forever, effectively destroying any hope you had of running away from your past.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Obi-Wan Kenobi &amp; Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. It Started With Spotchka</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Business was booming. You could barely keep up with all of the orders being tossed at you by customers and servers alike. Your fingers were cold from gripping your cocktail shakers repeatedly, but there was no time to place your hands up to your lips for some desperately needed warmth.</p><p>“I need two Meiloorun Juices and a Spotchka,” one of your coworkers called above the bustling noise of the bar.</p><p>You nodded in acknowledgement and poured the drink you were currently making into a glass, sliding it expertly toward the customer who had ordered it. The bar was a popular spot among the middle class on Coruscant, but it never got this busy. Perhaps it was all the senators’ attendings trying to escape their duties that accounted for the influx of activity. Whatever the reason, you were eager to make more tips for a change, especially since times were tighter since the start of the Clone Wars. </p><p>“[Y/n],” your coworker called again. “I need those drinks yesterday.”</p><p>“Coming right up,” you spun around to grab some empty glasses and take them to the drink dispensers. Before filling them, however, you had a lapse in memory. Was it two Spotchkas and a Jawa Juice? Or three Spotchkas? You bit your lip. “Can you tell me the order again?”</p><p>“Two Meiloorun and one Spotchka,” came the annoyed reply. You couldn’t blame her, it was a busy night and every moment you spent slacking put her at a greater risk to lose tips which wouldn’t do either of you any favors. </p><p>You tried your best to stay in the good graces of your coworkers because of a story you had heard three months ago when you were first hired. Apparently, a few years back, someone had begun to really piss everyone off, so, instead of resolving it diplomatically, the establishment had hired a bounty hunter to scare the problematic employee off. Rumor said that the bounty hunter had taken the liberty of killing the employee, which was something you had a hard time believing, especially on the relatively peaceful Coruscant, but the fear of possibility was enough to coerce you into working.</p><p>And you didn’t mind working all that much anyway. For one, money was money, and two, it gave you something to do other than moping alone in your grungy apartment. You were lucky to have the patronage of your wealthy parents, but you refused to live an elaborate life at their expense and be even further indebted to them. You found the cheapest place within reasonable distance to the bar, and that’s what they would pay for until you were on your feet and could support yourself. When that happened, you swore to pay them back and never deal with them again. </p><p>They weren’t bad people, but you had differing political ideologies. They supported and basically worshipped the Jedi Order while you found the organization to be overly involved in war. If all Force users were removed from the conflict, it would just be normal people fighting one another without any ethereal, outside influences at work. To you, the Force was just an excuse to manipulate and exploit people. Your family was a victim of this manipulation. </p><p>When you were seven, your mother gave birth to the most beautiful baby boy you had ever seen, with wide green eyes that were always squinted into a bright smile. He was a happy baby, always giggling and gurgling at you when you made faces at him, pulling your hair a little too roughly, and clumsily clapping his chubby hands together. You loved him, and swore to always be there to watch and protect him. Just as an older sister should. </p><p>But then, two Jedi knights showed up at your door, claiming that your brother was Force sensitive, destined to follow the path of the Order. Your parents were so proud of him, a baby who had done nothing but breathe and exist. They all too eagerly sent your baby brother away, never giving him or you a say in the matter. </p><p>After that, you didn’t even have the comfort of life going back to the way it was. Despite her eagerness and pride, your mother was devastated from having given away her baby. She neglected you, spending time in the countryside of Alderaan to heal. That went on for years until your mother finally came to and returned to living at home on a regular basis. By that time you were in your late teens, raised in your most critical years by the nursemaids and manservants who had become your friends.</p><p>As for your father, because he was often occupied with political matters, he too was absent, but he was more inclined to spare a moment or two and slip one of your scrawled drawings of flowers randomly into the mounds of paperwork he had to fill so he had an unexpected surprise later on. Every week, the two of you would have dinner together and play hide and seek for half an hour before he had to return to work. It was too short a time to feel enough affection, for his was a silent love, too discreet for a child to fully pick up on.</p><p>They tried to make up to you, becoming overly involved in your life, trying to find you a suitor against your wishes, thinking that would fix the years of neglect. You didn’t have the heart to tell them you felt almost nothing when it came to their love, so you asked to be sent to Coruscant to get some hard life experience to help you be more sympathetic to those in less fortunate social standings. Alderaanians were known for prioritizing education, and your parents agreed, not knowing that the real reason you asked to go was to put distance between you and them. You could only maintain an act for so long, and pretending to be their perfect, loving daughter was tearing you apart.</p><p>Now that you were in your mid twenties, you could better understand their pain. The weight of responsibility your father struggled with, having a young daughter and a broken, often absent wife was great, yet he still managed to do an exemplary job maintaining the family image for his political career, and that served him well. You also understood the pain your mother was experiencing at the time, and the reason behind her behavior; however, that didn’t erase the years without her in your life.</p><p>You were content with cutting them off, and that was what you intended to do on Coruscant. You weren’t daring enough to escape to the Outer Rim and take refuge on Tatooine, you doubted they would have ever let you, but this way, you could taste some freedom. You changed your name, found a decent job, and began making allies wherever you could. If one good thing came from watching your father at his work, it was developing a charismatic nature. </p><p>Aa a politician it is critical to be prompt, collected, and pleasant, lying through your teeth with a smile that can charm credits from a poor man. You were no politician, but you had enough sense to be agreeable and stay out of trouble. </p><p>You kept your more pessimistic ideas to yourself, and even crafted a new past to tell people. You included the tale about your brother, citing that as the source of any raged or sorrowful outbursts, but changed your parents into two loving, but impoverished figures who sent you away to better yourself when you were young. You were taken to Coruscant and when you became old enough, your foster parents set you up with a place of your own, giving you just enough to start out on. With this story, you were a hardworking, self-made individual who meant business, and thus warranted respect. You preferred it to your true origin tale.</p><p>Everyone at the bar had their own sad stories about their lives, and some had been drunk enough to share them with you. You had bounty hunters, traders, transporters, and all sorts of people come through, each for their own reasons. Some needed to take an edge off, others wanted to celebrate economic success. Most were spiraling into the darkness of war and needed to be distracted from the dismal realities of the world by throwing themselves into substance, taking shots of orange or blue in hopes that the plague of depression would pass them over. You kept out of their business. After all, they only came here to drink.</p><p>The night continued with you barely able to catch a break. It was customer after customer, drink after drink, your fingers going numb and muscle memory taking over for your brain. Why did everyone want a drink colder than the climate on Hoth? It was your responsibility to fulfill their drink requests, but it was becoming a little ridiculous.</p><p>The strong scent of alcohol buzzed around you as the bar gradually began to slow down, the mass of customers dissipating until only a few night owls and terribly drunk souls were left. You were the last of three employees at the bar, the manager having left about an hour ago. Closing shifts were the worst, but that’s where the money was, so you offered to take as many as you could.</p><p>While you were lost in thought, a cloaked figure entered the establishment and took a seat at the bar, clearing his throat loudly when you didn’t flock over to take his order. Your head jerked in his direction and you smiled at the shadowy face under the hood.</p><p>“Hey,” you greeted sweetly. “What can I getcha tonight?”</p><p>“The hardest drink you’ve got,” came the solemn reply.</p><p>You nodded in understanding and got a glass of Spotchka ready for him. You could tell by the slump of his shoulders that something heartbreaking had happened. It was a common position for customers to assume when they wandered in this late at night. You placed the glass in front of him and watched as his hand slid out from his sleeve to grip it almost desperately. He tilted his head, drinking the beverage as if it were milk. You caught sight of a kempt, honey-auburn beard before it disappeared once again within the shadow of the stranger’s hood.</p><p>“Surely that can’t be it,” he remarked. “Don’t you have any Flameout?”</p><p>“That’s intense stuff,” you said with a crease in your brow. “Scalds the tongue and freezes the throat.”</p><p>“I know,” he shot a glare at you, and for the first time you were able to see his swollen, red eyes. He didn’t need to be reasoned with. What this man needed was some hard liquor and an enabling bartender to give it to him.</p><p>“We’ve got some on tap,” you took his empty glass and placed it in a little sink that sat against the wall of the bar. You grabbed a clean glass and took some Flameout from the keg you had stocked. Most people avoided the stuff, because it was so strong and a little pricey too, but desperate times called for desperate measures. </p><p>“Here,” you placed the glass in front of the man. “Do you want a pitcher or will you be drinking by the glass?”</p><p>“I’ll take a pitcher,” he mumbled before sipping his drink. You could see his throat tense and squirm as the liquid spilled down into his stomach, probably setting his insides ablaze.</p><p>“Coming right up.”</p><p>You watched from afar as the man continued solemnly drinking. He ended up ordering another pitcher after the first seemed to leave him unaffected. You were shocked by his resistance to the intoxicating substance, but said nothing. He appeared to be the type who wallowed silently. Alone. It had been a few hours, and your coworkers had already left you, trusting that you’d be alright on your own. Your manager always kept an emergency stun gun in the office, so you could rely on that if things went south.</p><p>“The bar closes in forty-five minutes,” you told the man gingerly while you polished the last of the cups that were in the sink. Now, all you had to worry about were the two pitchers and one glass that he had in front of him. “You’re welcome to keep drinking until then, but we are a fairly prompt establishment.”</p><p>He looked up at you and gave you a groggy nod. “Of course,” he slurred, obviously heavily intoxicated. “I’ll take another pitcher and that’ll be it.”</p><p>You hesitantly complied with his request and got him another. His second wasn’t even finished, and he was tasking himself with a whole other pitcher? Not ideal. You made sure to not fill the pitcher as much as you had the previous two, leaving ample space at the top to curb some of his drinking.</p><p>He muttered a thank you as you placed the drink in front of him, and you reflected on the scene that lay before you. There always seemed to be four kinds of drunkards at the bar. The first were those lucky enough to grow more cheerful when intoxicated. They were probably the most annoying because they didn’t catch onto social cues in their drunk state. The second were the angry drunks who had to be removed from the bar forcefully after causing trouble with other customers or employees. The third type were the people who became more flirtatious and risque after downing a few drinks. They weren’t awful, but you didn’t appreciate being hit on during a busy night. Finally, there were the sad drunks who seemed to feel every depressing emotion cave in on them all at once until they too were nothing but a pool of thick, darkness that snuffed out any joys in the world. Usually, this type was already sad when they entered the bar, but intoxication made them more vocal about their woes.</p><p>This is the type of drunk the stranger had proven to be.</p><p>You didn’t know where this man had come from, or where he would be going, but drowning in liquor was not ideal for any kind of travel, even if it was something as simple as a stroll in the garden. Eventually, you were able to coax a name out of him, hoping conversation would slow his drinking. </p><p>“Obi-Wan Kennnobi,” he stared at you with glossy eyes that were less red now than they had been when he first arrived. You were able to appreciate their startling blue color, now that the swelling had subsided. “That’s me, a damn fool who can’t seem to save anyone. <em> That </em> is who I am.”</p><p>He took another gulp of his fiery drink and stifled a burp. You had to keep your face from wrinkling with disgust in his compromised state. It was sad, seeing anyone like this, but there wasn’t much you could do. Your only role was to serve drinks, but you couldn’t help your curiosity.</p><p>“Care to tell me what happened,” you asked, resting your chin in your hand as you leaned against the bar.</p><p>“Not really,” he drawled.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“I lost someone,” he said finally, after an awkward cloud had encapsulated the two of you. “I couldn’t protect her.”</p><p>You nodded, giving him time to drink again before asking another question. </p><p>“Tell me about her,” you encouraged, noticing the clock that hung above the door. It was well past closing time, but Obi-Wan was in no state to be leaving. Not on his own, at least.</p><p>The intoxicated man’s speech was difficult to follow, but you were able to comprehend some of his story. A formidable foe had taken the life of the woman who owned his heart, despite the jedi code. </p><p>Upon learning of his position, you couldn’t stop the feeling of contempt bubbling in your throat. True, this man himself had done you no harm, but the Order ruined your life by taking your brother. That was something not so easily forgiven.</p><p>“I’m sorry for your loss,” you began. “And I hate to do this, but you’re going to have to leave now, sir. We are closed and I can’t let you stay here at the expense of my boss. I’m sure you understand.”</p><p>He nodded in understanding and hastily downed the last bit of Flameout, sloppily gulping it, unable to keep some from dripping down the edges of his lips into his beard and consequently, onto his robes.</p><p>“Oh my stars, you’re in a state,” you mumbled to yourself as you offered a napkin. Truly, this jedi was in no position to safely return to his home, but that wasn’t your problem. Still, as a patron of the bar, you felt some responsibility for him. “Do you want me to call you a cab,” you offered.</p><p>“No, no, I’ll be quite alright,” he stepped down from the barstool and headed shakily to the door. “May...the..with you,” he waved his hand sleepily and exited the establishment. </p><p>You could see him stumbling around in the dimly lit street from the window, but elected to ignore it. He’d be fine on his own…</p><p>Right?</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Price of Pity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Your softer side decides to give the intoxicated Jedi shelter. While he sleeps, you reflect on your past.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wanna be a beta reader and offer suggestions? Or do you feel like collaborating/making a request? Message me on Tumblr @PetitePandaBear and we can work something out!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When you finally finished cleaning up after the Jedi, and setting everything else in order for the morning shift workers, who would no doubt come in groggy and exhausted the next morning, you took the keys to the bar and locked up. When the bar owner and manager, Algernon, Al for short, left early, he would give the spare keys to whoever was closing, instructing them to bring them in the next morning. Because you usually closed, the responsibility fell on you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling the cold metal of the keys in the chill outside air was something that left your fingers tingling. So much could go wrong if you were to drop them or lose them or get mugged. You thought about that all the time as you walked home, the possibilities and risks of your current state in life. The only comfort you had was that you were no longer a political asset worth capturing and holding for a ransom or forceful negotiative purposes. That in itself was a burden lifted off your shoulders, however, others quickly took its place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wrapped your cloak more tightly around your body as you walked, the faint hum of speeders belonging to late night stragglers present above you. You would often get tired of the hustle evident in the city, and yearn once again for the mountain breeze of Alderaan, crisp and comforting and cool, but not like a bitter cold. It was soothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clattering sound of metal being sharply dropped onto concrete to your left made you jump, your head snapping into the direction of the noise. A man stood, knees bent and heaving shoulders pressed against the side of a building in an alleyway. From what you could see, he looked terrible. Probably another person thrown out on the street because of the war. Your pace slowed down, as you observed the man, listening to his slurred singing.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And I’ve got a thing,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No other could dream of</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A princess who’s only for me</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>With footsteps like delicate light</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shining for all to see</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a terrible song. You winced at the out of tune drawl, unable to keep yourself from chuckling a little. He was lively, that was sure enough. Your smile faded when he turned to face you. You recognized those startling eyes from earlier that night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh stars,” you grimaced. “The poor fool is going to get himself hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if he could read your mind, the man looked up from where he knelt, picking up the item he had dropped. There was a flash of recognition that glazed across his drunk face and he headed towards you. You tensed, not sure what the next moments would bring. He was easily much larger and stronger than you were, and the thoughts of what a drunk man could do shook you to your core.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t make it far. After taking only a few steps, he collapsed onto the ground, hitting his head against the floor. That didn’t look good. In fact, it appeared to be quite painful. The poor man would wake up in the morning with one hell of a hangover. You started on your way again, but paused, looking back to the sorry figure, sprawled on the ground in a vulnerable heap. You pitied the man, you couldn’t help it. You may have had an obvious disdain for Jedi, but you had a soul, a soul that you were currently cursing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your apartment was only a few minutes away, but that didn’t change the fact that your muscles were aching and burning from dragging the man with you. At least it was warm though, his body framed against yours. You could feel his breath against your neck, which you took as a good sign, because it meant the poor fool hadn’t gone and died. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” you cursed as you almost dropped him while trying to retrieve the keys to your apartment from your pocket. “Why are you so heavy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After managing to enter and dump him onto the feeble armchair, you collapsed onto your bed in the next room, shaking from the strain. You never thought you’d be in the business of hauling bodies around, and even if you were, you expected they wouldn’t be living. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Modest was one word that could be used to describe your apartment. There was a small living area and kitchen, and an even smaller bedroom with a bathroom that always had some kind of problem. Sometimes it was plumbing, other times the shower wouldn’t drain quite right. Despite its shoddy appearance, you had managed to make it a home, painting the walls a soothing green that reminded you of the waters of Alderaan, cushion covers for the scarce furniture that were deep grey like the mountains, and a few paintings you had made in your teenage years of your childhood home and the surrounding scenery hanging on the walls. It wasn’t much, but it was home, and it was a comfort. Now though, with the stranger sprawled on your recliner, you were aware of how small it all really was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You felt bad for leaving him in such an uncomfortable position on the worst piece of furniture you had ever possessed, and you could smell the distinct stench of alcohol from where you were laying. That was probably because the man in his slobberish intoxication had spilled all over himself. That wouldn’t do.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>You hauled yourself out of bed and peeked through your door at the sleeping man. Even his face made him look uncomfortable. With a sigh, you began your task. Lucily, it seemed as if the spill was contained to his outermost cloak, which you managed to stretch off his body and throw onto the floor to wash. You pressed a warm cloth to his face, washing off dirt that had undoubtedly been smeared on his face while he fumbled around in the alley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a strange one,” you whispered, once again dragging the man, this time to throw him onto the bed. You gave up trying to put him in a comfortable position and left him on his stomach with half a blanket barely covering his body. “That’s the best I can do, sorry old man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You grabbed his cloak from the floor and took it to the bathroom, turning on the shower to clean it while you rinsed yourself off. When the warm water touched your body you bit your tongue in satisfaction, eyes closing as a smile crept onto your lips. This was your favorite part of the day. It felt like you were washing away all your worries and were left with nothing but comforting steam that stroked your skin as you dried off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After you finished your shower, you hung the cloak from the showerhead, letting it soak in the clearing water before scrubbing soap into the fibers of the cloth. Once the bubbles were sufficiently incorporated, you rinsed it once more before draping it over the walls of your shower to dry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laundry. You smiled as you thought about doing laundry in the past. Thursday was laundry day, and sometimes, with enough begging, instead of sending the wash to the laundry droid, one of the maids would accompany you to the stream to wash your clothes. It gave you something to look forward to while you wandered around the estate alone to your thoughts. Scrubbing delicately at the fine cloth was therapeutic, and you liked to imagine that the tears that fell into the soapy water helped your clothes stay magically beautiful. The tears gave your lace skirts a sparkling spin, stardust leaping off the end, laughter that you would never be surrounded by. Those were the simpler times of childhood, early enough for you to have still been unaware of the extensiveness of your parents’ absence, when the obligation of the servants and conversations with droids were enough to keep you satiated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sighed, throwing your hair up in a towel to dry. If things were different...well, then they’d be different. There was no sense in dwelling on things that were impossible to change, especially if thinking about them did nothing but cause you distress. You rubbed your eyes and leaned back into the less than comfortable recliner, drawing your knees to your chest and shifting until you were comfortable. It didn’t take long for you to realize that you would never reach that point, and would be better off sleeping on the carpeted floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s exactly what you did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you lay on your back staring at the ceiling, you let your mind wander to the lush mattress of your childhood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-------------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ada,” you called through the halls, scrambling away from your nursemaid and bolting for the man who stood in a group of established looking citizens. “Will you come and play?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sprinted and clung to his pant leg, tugging at the cloth with your wide, innocent eyes. Some of the members of the group chuckled, others glared at you with disdain. You didn’t mind any of them, the only person who mattered was your father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, [y/n],” you father whispered, picking you up and resting you on his hip. “Not now, Ada has very important things to discuss with these fine people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I not important?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are, my little star,” he lifted you up and spun around, setting you back on your feet. “Now, go to your nurse and mind her. And we’ll play after dinner like we do every week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Promis?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promise, my flower. Now run along.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Content, you hobbled off, not knowing at the time that his words were empty, and he would forget his promise later on. He forgot a lot of things, but only when they related to you. His work and negotiations, however, were things not so easily forgotten or overlooked. It took you years to realize his priorities, and once the discovery was made you wished you had lingered in ignorance for just a little while longer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-------------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You mother is coming home tomorrow,” your father said quietly as the two of you ate supper. “Are you excited to see her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mother,” you questioned. “I...I suppose I am. Is she well? She hasn’t contacted me in a while now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s been very busy with her recovery,” your father chided. “It’s imperative that when she gets here, you be on your best behavior. We don’t want her falling ill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes father,” you mumbled, poking at your food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you stop calling me Ada,” he remarked curiously. “I miss it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry...Ada,” you glanced up from your food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothing to worry yourself over,” he assured. “It comes with growing up, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the meal was silent, which wasn’t unusual for the two of you. Still, the air was thick and you were tense, not knowing the proper things to say or the way to act. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From the looks of your plate I assume you’re not hungry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What,” you looked up at your meal and locked eyes with your father. His were the same green as your brother’s, lost but full of constant wonder, as if he saw something greater than anyone else, potential in hidden places that people so readily ignored instead of explored. “Sorry, what did you say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re not hungry, you may be excused,” your father smiled gently. “Go off and enjoy your teenage youth. Find a boy to wander after.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Father!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kidding, only kidding, my little star,” he laughed. “Run along. Would you like to play a game of chess in an hour?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, sir,” you said as you rose. “I think I’ll retire early, you know, to have energy when Mother arrives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well, have a good night’s sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good night.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-------------</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Accompany me on a walk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You looked up from your book to see your mother, standing regally as ever clad in a dress of silver that would almost look green when hit by the sunshine, just right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, mother,” you stated hastily, folding the edge of the page you were reading.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do that,” your mother grimaced. “You’ll ruin the book.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I do this with all my books,” you said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And all your books are a mess,” she remarked. “Remember the page and we’ll get you a proper book mark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You set your book down and rose to follow your mother into the estate gardens. You had no words to share with her, no interest in conversing. When she had returned home, she was distanced, with no desire to hold you close, and admittedly, you had no desire to be close to her either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spoke slowly, with no intention of letting you talk anyway, and you didn’t mind. She was easily ignored, and never asked any questions anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hated walking with her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-------------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An abrupt sound shook you from your sleep, your brain screaming danger to your body. Sun was spilling in through the windows, but there was only one light you were focused on, and it was a vibrant blue pointed at your neck. This was not the first thing you expected to see in the morning.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. He's Just a Jedi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The morning after the incident, you converse with the Jedi, offering him a little something to help with his hangover.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wanna be a beta reader and offer suggestions? Or do you feel like collaborating/making a request? Message me on Tumblr @PetitePandaBear and we can work something out!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Who the hell are you,” the man standing over you growled. “What information about the Confederacy do you have you filthy spy?”</p><p>You blinked, still trying to fathom the situation. There was a lightsaber being held to your throat by a furious looking man, you were sprawled on your back on the floor, and he was accusing you of belonging to the Confederacy. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You heard me,” he said in the same malicious tone. “Divulge your secrets, spy.”</p><p>“I’m not a spy,” you protested, still wary of the threatening blade. “I’m a bartender, down at the Glowing Rock. I’m nobody.”</p><p>“Then why am I here?”</p><p>“You don’t remember,” you scooted back. “Where were you last night?”</p><p>Luckily enough, the man retracted his saber, bringing a hand to his forehead and letting out a low groan. It was most certainly the hangover, but you thanked the stars that it was enough to get him to remove his blade from your throat.</p><p>“I was...I took a walk…”</p><p>You could see the gears turning in his head, clicking and piecing together the events of the previous night.</p><p>“I don’t remember,” he blinked.</p><p>“You went to a bar,” you prompted. “Had enough Flameout for six men, maybe more.”</p><p>“That doesn’t explain why I’m here.”</p><p>“I ran into you on my way home,” you added. “You were...In a state of disarray to put it kindly, so I dragged you home and cleaned you up a bit. Your cloak is in the bathroom, but I doubt that it’s dry.”</p><p>He scoffed. “Am I supposed to believe that a feeble thing like you managed to carry a Jedi Master all the way here? You take me as a fool.”</p><p>“I didn’t carry you,” you corrected him. “I dragged you, and I’m still sore from it.” </p><p>You rubbed the back of your neck.</p><p>“And sleeping on the floor didn’t help with that.”</p><p>His head turned to the open door to your room then back to you. There it was, the absolute <em> genius </em> of a Jedi was putting it all together. For someone who was supposed to relinquish all emotion, he certainly seemed prone to jump to conclusions.</p><p>“You had me sleep in your bed…”</p><p>“I figured the hangover would be even worse if I just threw you on the recliner. It’s so uncomfortable that I elected to sleep on the floor. That wasn’t much better.”</p><p>You laughed, surely but cautiously rising to your feet. The man didn’t seem nearly as malicious as had just moments before, and that was comforting enough.</p><p>“I appreciate the gesture, but I have a terrible headache nonetheless,” he mumbled. “And my suspicion of you hasn’t changed either, so don’t pull anything. I have the high ground here.”</p><p>Giving him a nod, you slowly made your way around him, keeping enough space between you for a whole herd of bantha to stampede.</p><p>“I’ll get you some tea and food for the pain, then I have to return the keys to the bar. You should leave after you eat.”</p><p>“You forget that you’re not the one in charge.”</p><p>“This is my home and you are a guest. And,” you smirked. “I’m willing to bet that the Jedi Order would not be too keen to hear about last night and how you took it too far with the liquor? It’d be a shame if they lost a Master.”</p><p>He squared his jaw and narrowed his eyes at you, still suspicious of your position in life. You couldn’t blame him, if you had woken up in the home of a stranger, you probably wouldn’t immediately trust the first face you were met with.</p><p>As you hustled to put together some tea, you noticed your reflection in the pot you set on the stove. Your eyes were dark and your hair...well, the tangled mess atop your head had most definitely seen better days. You felt yourself blush with embarrassment at your appearance. You were always taught as a child that cleanliness was the more important thing in life, and making yourself presentable for company and others was essential.</p><p>“For someone so vain,” the man spoke. “You have a surprisingly unpleasant apartment.”</p><p>“Vain,” you exclaimed. “What makes you say that?”</p><p>He smirked, knowing he had you in a corner. “The Force lets us ‘genius’ Jedi as you say, feel the strong emotions of things around us. It unites-”</p><p>“Unites all living things, yes, I know. How did you come to the conclusion that I’m a vain individual?”</p><p>“You’re dissatisfied with yourself.”</p><p>“That doesn’t mean I’m vain,” you shrugged, watching the eggs you were cooking, resisting the urge to brush your fingers through your hair to fix it. “It could just mean I’m not content with my situation in life and want to better myself.”</p><p>“I somehow doubt that that is the case,” came the curt reply.</p><p>You were seething now, your stomach burning as hot as the water on the stove. You were not about to give him the satisfaction of winning this dispute. No one spoke to you like a fool, especially not a Jedi.</p><p>“I expected Jedi to have better manners,” you remarked. “Especially when speaking to someone who went out of their way to help you when they didn’t owe you a thing. Ingratitude and pride are unbecoming.”</p><p>You brought the tea and eggs up to the Jedi and held them out to him. </p><p>“Have a seat, let’s do something for your headache.</p><p>Despite the mumbling under his breath, the Jedi relented and followed you to your kitchen table, taking a seat where you placed his plate and drink. </p><p>“Thank you,” he finally said.</p><p>You were honestly surprised by this. It seemed he wasn’t the epitome of ingratitude after all. You smiled, watching as he cautiously ate, as if wary that you had poisoned him. It reminded you of how your mother ate, refined and almost scared that the food wasn’t real. You had never spoken to her about what she did all those years away, but when she came back, she was not your mother. </p><p>The irony of it all was that she left to become better, to supposedly find a cure or refuge from her sorrows, and she came back with more than she had left with. That, or her depression was replaced with paranoia. Neither were good, but with time, she was better able to hide her distresses from you. You hated that, the lies and deceit that seemed to be the only thing holding your family together. </p><p>“What are you staring at,” the man’s guarded tone returned. “Is it your contact?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“Out the window, what are you looking at?”</p><p>You laughed. “I’m not looking at anything, sorry, just lost in thought. Do Jedi ever get lost in thought? Or is that against the Code?”</p><p>He looked at you unamused. “We don’t lose ourselves in thought,” he rolled his eyes. “We meditate. Every notion we have is full of intention and meaning. We do not mindlessly allow ourselves to wander.”</p><p>“That sounds dull.”</p><p>“It’s efficient.”</p><p>“It’s depressing.”</p><p>“Let me explain it another way,” he sighed, this time not with frustration. It was more akin to contemplation than anything else. “When a Jedi becomes lost in thought as you say, it is entirely intentional. Because of our sensitivity to the Force, we are blessed with the ability to see and notice what others do not. This makes our thoughts more like-”</p><p>“Revelations,” you interrupted. </p><p>“Visions. There’s a difference,” he corrected. “Visions of possibilities, wisps of truth. The stronger one is with the Force, the more vivid these inclinations are.”</p><p>“That’s...fascinating,” you said in awe. “I always thought the Jedi to be a more...shallow people.”</p><p>“Why is that?”</p><p>You shook your head, not wanting to think back to your brother. There were many reasons you saw the Jedi as shallow. Well, not shallow per se, but not a virtuous type either. To you, their flaws were more noticeable than their virtues, and were much louder than them for certain. What kind of people took children away from their families, claiming some kind of right over the lives of innocent, unassuming babies? They then taught them to be emotionless, simultaneously connected and disconnected, allegedly balanced. In your eyes, there was no balance to be found in relinquishing the very emotions that gave one the ability to connect with others. </p><p>“It’s personal,” you admitted. “And not something I’ll easily overcome.”</p><p>“I’m sorry that your experience with the Jedi has been less than satisfactory,” he said. “I assure you that the majority are noble and courageous.”</p><p>“I’m sure.”</p><p>He finished sipping his tea, a look of pondering across his face as he stared at you. His gaze was unsettling, as if he were picking apart your mind and every thought as the seconds ticked by. He could see right through you, the damn Jedi, and he had no intentions of keeping that fact a secret.</p><p>“So, if you are in fact, not a spy for the Confederacy,” he rested his chin on his fist. “Tell me, what do you call yourself?”</p><p>You told him your name, well, the one you gave yourself anyway. Keeping your first name, you decided to relinquish the family name of Allorum to better hide your identity. You wanted a clean slate, and this Jedi was bringing up old, souring memories that made it impossible. </p><p>“And you are…” you asked.</p><p>“General Obi-Wan Kenobi, grateful for your hospitality. I’m surprised you took me home even without knowing my name.”</p><p>“I’m sure I asked you,” you chuckled. “I was just so shocked by you rudely awakening me that I didn’t remember it, General Kenobi. That is a name I will not soon forget.”</p><p>“And I won’t forget yours,” he gave you a nod. “I should be on my way, I trust you have your own business to attend to. Be it spy business or otherwise.”</p><p>“Thank you, and good luck with your hangover. If you ever decide to visit the Glowing Rock again, go straight to the bar, don’t bother with a table. Chances are, I’ll be working and you can use your Jedi mind tricks to steal all my spy intelligence.”</p><p>“So you are a spy?”</p><p>“I’m making a joke,” you rolled your eyes. “I guess becoming emotionless also means giving up a sense of humor.”</p><p>To your surprise, he let out a full laugh, placing a rough hand over his beard.</p><p>“Good day to you, [y/n],” he said as he walked out the door.</p><p>“May the Force be with you,” you said with an almost mocking tone.</p><p>If he was annoyed, he did nothing to reveal it, and without another word, he slipped out of your little home, hopefully to never be seen again. But a strange tug in the back of your head silently informed you that that would, unfortunately, not be the case.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>